


Claimed

by Callipy



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cock Warming, Dirty Talk, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callipy/pseuds/Callipy
Summary: Rick Grimes doesn't get off scot-free with his first hellish encounter with the depraved Claimers.





	1. Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> So I knooow I haven't Updated my Biohazard fic in awhile, but I will! It's getting there, the going's just slow. Not a lot of motivation as of late.
> 
> I recently started rewatching The Walking Dead, and just couldn't help writing this! The scenes where Rick was trapped in the house were just so suspenseful and ripe with opportunity! I was considering doing the A/B/O Dynamic AU here, but I've never done it before, soo. Y'know. I might rewrite a version of it later if that's something you guys would be interested in, though. 
> 
> Anyways. This'll be a multi-chapter fic. I'm not really sure which direction it'll be headed in, so suggestions are welcome! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own or claim rights to either the show, comics, or spinoffs. I love my TWD characters, they're my precious babies, but a little rough never hurt anyone. 
> 
> Rated E for future non-con/rape in following chapters, as well as canon-typical violence, death and gore. 
> 
> I don't condone Violence or Rape in real life, that much should be obvious. It is simply something I enjoy writing about in the fictional sense. 
> 
> (This work is un-betaed. If you see anything wrong, let me know :) )

S04: E11 “Claimed” 

The gentle rise and fall of Rick Grimes’ chest carried with it the book he’d fallen asleep reading as some noises drifted upstairs through the thin floors. It was Jack London’s Selected Short Stories—the book, that was— a classic in it’s own obscure right; and the distinct aged-book smell that came from the crisp pages of the tented paperback lulled him further into his much needed slumber. Rick had always been a fan of collected shorts. James Oliver Curwood, Ambrose Bierce and Nathaniel Hawthorne had never failed to put him to sleep with their beguiling tales of bitter idealisms and doomed romance. He’d been in a light, albeit comfortable sleep like this; book on his chest and gauze-wrapped hands folded gently at his stomach. He probably would have continued to doze like this, body having had a rough couple of days since what happened at the prison (something he couldn’t help but focus on, dissect, put together again and worriedly take apart once more, despite his attempts not to)— but despite the short elapse of time, he was already looking better than he had that day. Irregardless of the tacky sweat that covered his face and clung to his clothes, the angry looking scar of a cut on the bridge of his nose and the shiner and swollen cheek he had, where a thin scab held together his broken skin– the color had returned to his cheeks, and he wasn’t as sore and ragged as he’d been the first few grueling days. 

But it wasn’t his worries that were rousing him from his fitful sleep. It was the noise. The pleading.

“I’m sorry, man.” Someone blubbered.

“Aw, shut up.” Spat who was probably his attacker. Rick’s closed eyes darted left and right as he fought against the still heavy dredges of sleep, as if he was looking for the source of the noise.

“Don’t do this, please.” The man begged.

“What the hell’d you say to me?” Asked the second man incredulously

“I said don’t do this–”

“This ain’t your business.” Continued the dominant male, as if the man’s life didn’t belong to him.

“I’m sorry, man,–” the beggar was cut off crisply.

“Aw, shut up.” he snapped, emphasizing each word,

“I’m so sorry. No, don’t.” The beggar must have been incapacitated, or at least stricken with fear. What had he done to deserve this? Was he bad? Or were the real monsters those in charge?

“It’s gonna happen.” There was no room for argument.

“We can work this out. Please, don’t do this.” he continued, as if his fate wasn’t already sealed.

“It’s gonna happen.” reiterated the second man

“No, no, no, please. Please don’t. Please!” His cries became more urgent, more feral. There was a thud, a blow, a scuffle, and then a scream. Rick’s blue eyes opened to that and derisive laughter, the mans pained groans cutting through their sneers. How close were there? Where was he? His blown out irises quickly assessed the room, adrenaline pumping. He was alone. They must be downstairs. 

His first immediate thought was Carl. Where was Carl. Him and Michonne had left for supplies, his brain informed him.

“Oh, God!” wailed the injured man, making Rick’s eyes shoot to the door instinctively, breathing ragged as he took in all this new information. Carl was down the street with Michonne. He was safe. He had to tell himself that. Carl was safe. He wasn’t here, but he had a sneaking suspicion that might be a good thing.

“You plan on finishing the job?” Came in a third voice. Three. There were three men downstairs. Three probably dangerous, and probably armed men. He might have been able to take down two fully able men unawares, with his gun and more time. But three? With limited ammo, and bruised ribs? His tensed muscles quickly caught up with his mind, and he instinctively grabbed for the gun at his hip.

“Yeah.” Agreed the second man.

“I’m getting an earache.” A fourth voice whined. A fourth man. “–and I know he’s just gonna let his ass squeal.” Who were these men? Was he referring to the leader? What kind of leader beat his own men into submission? With gritted teeth and a stiffened resolve, Rick swiped his watch off the bedside table with his wrapped hand in time to hear heavy footsteps ascend the stairs. He quickly albeit clumsily rolled off the bed, the book being shoved haphazardly under the rumpled covers as he tried to hit the floor as quietly as possible. He didn’t know what he was dealing with here, though he knew for a fact he was outmanned, and if that was any indication, probably outgunned too.

“Y’all stay down there if ya want.” Drawled the voice of the last man, which grew louder on his approach. Rick landed on his feet and stepped briskly to the doorway to see if he could chance a glance at the perpetrators. The heavy thuds of footsteps grew unbearably louder as he lingered at the doorway, leaning forward a bit just in time to see a hand opening a door down and across the hall. The door opened on squeaky hinges, and Rick only saw the dark leather of his top, the blue denim of his jeans, and more crisp than the blur of color the rest of him was, a large semi-automatic gun held at his side. An R16 M4 Flattop, or some variation of it. He sucked in a shaky breath between his teeth, hoping the indistinct chatter on the first floor would cover him as he swiftly grabbed the book from the unmade bed and slipped beneath it, hands shaking until he curled his fingers into fists so hard the wedding band on his left hand dug into the knuckle. Cursing his quick thinking, (it had been a little rash, he should have grabbed the open plastic water bottle on the nightstand, as it was fresh, and had no condensation indicative of the empty house they thought this was)– Rick slipped out from underneath the bed to reach for the forgotten item, head snapping to the door as the footsteps returned in rising volume. He saw the long barrel of the man’s gun, and quickly slid underneath the bed again, open hands shaking more violently than before. That had been stupid, stupid thinking. He couldn’t let them see him, what if he’d seen him?

He held bated breath, and thankfully the footsteps passed the prone room he was in to investigate the other closed doors. As the sound of another knob turning hit his ears, Rick steeled himself before crawling out to grab the plastic bottle, slipping back beneath the bed without incident. The offhanded chatter downstairs continued, covering the sound of his shaky breaths and slight movements. He carefully let go of the fragile plastic, lest he clutch it too hard and unleash the sound of crumpling plastic, just in time it seemed as the footsteps rounded back the way they’d come. Blue eyes wide and alert, Rick watched as the lanky, armed man headed in his direction, gun still aimed at the floor in lackadaisical negligence. Rick flinched when he entered the room, heart beating impossibly fast in his chest as the footsteps were muffled on the blue rug. A mantra of ‘please don’t look under the bed’s,’ filled his head, and he hoped the man would continue his half-hearted looting. Shallow breaths pushed past puffy lips, and Rick couldn’t help but shrink away from the too-close view of the swinging barrel as the man stopped to regard the bed for a moment before kicking some crumpled clothes out of his path. He opened the closet for a cursory view before closing it, deeming it’s contents worthless. The man swaggered towards the right side of the bed, stopping before the dresser. A ticking incensed Rick to suck in air between clenched teeth, hurt hand fumbling to grab the small watch from his pocket to quiet that incessant ticking which threatened to give him away. The floorboards creaked as the man rounded the other side of the bed, blood-crusted boots stopping just short of where his face was, expression marred with worry and sweat dripping from the dark curls hanging in his eyes. Conversation had stopped downstairs, replaced with a banging. Rick shook in his hiding place, sure he was spotted. The man had just been standing there for some tense moments, and he could feel that creeping dread straightening the hairs at the back of his neck. He was going to look under the bed any moment, now. He was going to find him, probably beat him like he had that first man. The footsteps drew even nearer, now at his right– the left of the bed, His feet turned before a sudden weight dropped at his back, flattening him on the hardwood and practically squishing the breath from him. The bed squeaked under his weight, a contented sigh leaving the oblivious man’s mouth as he settled in, the bed thankfully rising from the initial dip to accommodate his weight and take the pressure off. Though he was still shaking, a small relieved sigh left his lips, contradicted by a voice that floated up from the first floor. 

“This will be our abode for the evening.” The nameless man said, and just like that, all relief was gone, replaced by a thick, unyielding ball of dread in his gut. Carl and Michonne would undoubtedly be back by then. He had to get out. He had to warn them. 

“Clean up your mess, Harley,” instructed a voice, though it’s meaning was lost to Rick. He lowered his flushed forehead to the cool floor, tremors still plaguing him as his mind reeled. 

He had to get out.

He had to warn them.


	2. Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is un-betaed. If you see any spelling errors or awkward phrasing, please tell me! :)
> 
> MIND THE TAGS   
> Rape/Non-Con in next chapter.

Rick turned his shaggy head of curls to the right to regard the soft snoring of the unnamed invader. It had been a few minutes, though the silence and occasional grunt or shift of his guest sent him into another tizzy of worry. Those few minutes had seemed to stretch into eons, and Rick was only glad the obviously exhausted man was so easily swayed into sleep. Breath still ragged, as he hadn’t allowed himself even a moment of respite from his attentive diligence, Rick waited another few tense seconds before strengthening his resolve at escape. All he had to do was slip out from under the bed, and find an empty room where he could crawl from a window. There didn’t have to be any unnecessary violence or bloodshed here… He could just slip away, like a ghost.

Escape.

Find Carl and Michonne. 

And leave.

That was all he was concerned with. 

Deeming this as good a time as any, Rick slowly pushed himself to his left, wincing at the twinge of pain emanating from his ribs. He paused at the sound of footsteps, however, praying whoever it was would just pass. No such luck besieged him, and as he heard what must have been the man cresting the stairs, he begrudgingly pushed himself back underneath the shelter of the bed, cursing the bad timing. 

This man had cleaner, black boots laced all the way to the top, with brown cargo pants tucked into the soles. He swaggered forward and stopped just before the divider between room and hall, the sleeping man atop the bed oblivious and continuing his snores.

“Comfy?” Asked the man. The snoring stopped. There was a tense pause, and Rick could do nothing but wait and listen.

“...You waking me up to see if I’m comfortable?” Came the grit out reply, the man obviously displeased at having been woken up from his little nap.

“I want to lie down.” Said the newcomer, with all the bluntness of a barbed baseball bat. 

“Two other bedrooms up here to choose.” Snubbed the man in bed, not seeming very concerned with this development. Mostly, he just sounded tired, like he’d much prefer the latter went away so he could cling to those last vestiges of sleep. Rick kind of preferred that course of action as well, he would admit. 

“Them’s kids beds.” grunted the man in the hall. He stepped forward into the room, as if he’d made up his mind about where he’d be resting his head. “I want this one.”

“It’s claimed.” Snapped the man in bed, to which the man prowling forward replied “I didn’t hear it,” rather flippantly. He seemed to have an answer to everything, and as much as Rick would like them to take this dispute elsewhere, he knew that wouldn’t happen due to the object in question being the very thing he was hiding under. What luck.

“You gonna have to lay claim somewhere else.” Came the relaxed reply. Despite the unnervingly relaxed tone in their voices, Rick could feel the tension in the air mounting. Someone was going to swing, and soon. 

The brown-booted man was unceremoniously yanked from his prone position on the bed, and the two men wrangled for dominance for a moment, blows landing on each end. They both grunted in anger and exertion, the sick sound of punches landing making Rick lean away unconsciously, looking for a route of escape he knew was just out of reach before one toppled backwards at the foot of the bed, making Rick’s blood run cold. He hit the floor hard, groaning, and when he tried to lift his bandana-ed head another heavy blow landed on his face, pushing him down again. Rick watched with mounting fear, as each passing moment he was exposed to the man on the floor who, sticking with Rick’s assumption of obliviousness, had yet to spot him. But then again, he was busy fending off his attacker, who kneeled so he could better wrap his calloused hands around the scruffy-looking mans neck. 

A punch gave him a little leeway to try and lean forward, but his momentum was lost and as he tried to grapple with the man atop him, a punch so hard his head snapped to the side stopped him from getting far. Rick froze. The man coughed and gagged from the punishing blow, but as he went to turn his head back to his assailant, he caught Rick’s gaze. Brown, incredulous eyes met blue as the striking realization that he hadn’t been alone in that room struck the beaten man. 

“Len! Len, stop!” he gasped, no doubt trying to inform him of their guest. A sharp, crude laugh accentuated another blow to the fallen man’s gut, making him wheeze. 

“Ready to give up, you sonuvabitch?” he sneered, and Rick realized with growing horror the attacker was going to give him time to answer. 

“Len! There’s someone–” Another thwack sent his head snapping to the other side, and Rick prayed and hoped he’d just beat him until he couldn’t speak, as dark as it sounded. 

“What? Someone what?” Mocked the first man, obviously on a power trip. Rick didn’t want to be around to see what they’d do to someone that wasn’t their own if this was how they treated their supposed comrades.

“–under the bed!” Gasped the breathless man, and Rick swore every muscle tensed at that. He was as tight and coiled as a spring, just aching to be unloaded.

Len apparently didn’t find this information very credible, as he just laughed before getting down on one knee, wrapping his hands around the other man’s throat like an anaconda squeezing the life from it's victim.

“Stop–” Gasped the nameless man- and Rick felt bad, but he was hoping the man wouldn’t. 

“Hell, no!” Barked the other man, and the rest of the man’s gasping pleads fell on deaf ears, his light brown eyes finally losing their sheen of consciousness. The choking sounds had been disgusting to listen to, but Rick was just glad the only man who’d seen him was no longer conscious. Thank the Lord.

The harsh sound of Len panting had Rick on edge, and he was glad when the unconscious man’s eyes slipped shut. It had been unnerving to look into the eyes of a man who’d almost gotten him killed, but watching his unconscious body twitch and figuratively power down like an overheated car was somehow worse.

“Under the bed my ass,” Spat the victor, quite literally- fat loogie aimed crudely next to the fallen man's head. Rick hoped against hope it would be left at that, but as the unconscious man was kicked crudely to the door, and the man's hands dropped flat-palmed to the now open space at the foot of the bed, the reality of the situation began to dawn on him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He was about to be found. And he sure as hell didn't want to be found in such an open, prone position. Scrambling to get out from beneath the bed in time, the man let out a disgruntled “What the-” Obviously not expecting an actual person hiding under the bed like some acclamation of the childhood boogie monster. 

Managing to make it to his feet without incident, Rick froze when he saw the long barrel of the man's gun trained at his chest. His own hand curled instinctively around the gun at his hip, Len licked his lips nervously, eyes looking Rick up and down in a rather calculated manner.

“Put your fucking hands on your head.” He spat. Now it was Rick’s turn to bite the inside of his cheek in bottled up rage, but at the click of the safety, he slowly and begrudgingly raised his open-palmed hands to his head of curls.

“Turn around.” 

It took Rick another moment to realize the gravity of the situation before complying. He tensed up when the man stepped forward to grab his gun from It’s holster. Pocketing his find, his hands lingered at Rick’s hips, probably trying to decide if he should spat him down when he only had one hand. Rick on the other hand, almost wanted him to continue. If the gun got close enough, he could grab the barrel and point it safely away from him; knock back this lanky, bearded twig of a man and go from there. 

Unfortunately for him, the decision was made for Len at the rhythmic banging of a newcomer. Rick tried to turn his head to see what he was dealing with, but was rewarded for his efforts by being cuffed upside the head like an unruly pup. Bristling at being treated like some dog, Rick was going to say something- he wasn't really sure what, hadn't thought that far ahead- but was beaten to the punch by the man holding a gun to his back.

“Hey, Joe!” Len called, stepping away from Rick. Taking this as a sign of inattentiveness, Rick went to crane his head but was stopped by the barrel of the gun jabbing between his shoulder blades. Exasperated, Rick returned his gaze to the uneventful corner of the room, just itching to get away from these barbaric men.

The banging stopped. “Whaddya want, Len?” he asked, voice close yet far away. Was he on the second floor? The landing between floors? Where was Carl and Michonne? God, he hoped they'd see one of these buffoons and figure out they'd need to spend the night somewhere else.

“Found something,” Len replied, poking and prodding Rick like a piece of meat, much to his chagrin.

“Something nice.” Rick felt a shudder go up his spine at that. He wasn't some object, and he sure as hell wasn't gonna show these guys ‘nice’.   
There was a pause, and then footsteps.

“Yeah, what is it?” The second voice, Joe asked. He was getting nearer. Rick could picture him rounding the corner of the hall all-too-well, and was beginning to grow even more restless.

“You claim it?” the voice continued, and there was that word again. Calling dibs like kids did the front seat.

“Nah, not yet. Wanted to play with him a lil first. See if he's any good.” Len said conversationally.

Rick couldn't stand being talked about like some shiny new toy, and was done with guessing what these guys were doing back there. This time when he turned, Len let him. There was a second man in the doorway now, past the fallen landmark. Shorter than Len by a hair's width, the man had stringy grey hair that fell about his face, and a more groomed looking beard. He had a jean vest over some dark shirt, and had this aura about him that just called forth your attention. His gut told Rick this guy was the leader. And his gut was hardly ever wrong.

“Oh, he’ll do nicely.”


	3. Tested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! School's been kicking my ass, and I've been going through this suckish med change... Anyways, I hope you enjoy! It's gonna get pretty raunchy from here on out. Not gonna be smooth sailing, no siree. So if you haven't heeded tags, this won't be for the faint of heart. 
> 
> In other news... I just got to the part with Negan... And my, my, my, have we reached some opportunity GOLD, boys. Expect another TWD fic soon, concerning our dear Daryl Dixon... And I've started LOZ Breath of The Wild and HHHHHH. Such an amazing game. So good. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated... Until next time my lovelies. <3

“Where'd ya find ‘em?” asked the second man, and Rick tilted his head at the familiar timbre of his voice. Something, some memory dredged up in murky recollection tried to take his attention from the here and now, but he pushed it aside. This was definitely not a situation he was willing to fuck up, not after everything. Not after how far they’d come, how hard they’d fought to stay alive. Not when his life was just getting good again- or, as good as it was going to get at the rate they’d been going. With Michonne and Carl actually in good spirits.. Well, it kind of amazed him. The naivety of their optimism was outshined by the effect it had on him, really… And he might even have admitted to it rubbing off on him, that is- up until now. Of course, Hell… It was only a matter of time, and their unlocked doors and personal items must have been a practical invite for disaster… He was only happy he was the one here to take the fall and not them…

Standing with his head tilted upward in stubborn defiance, jaw clenching as his piercing blue eyes stayed fixated at the long neck of the gun trained on him, he tried to awkwardly shuffle back so as to compose himself to better formulate some sort of plan, something that wouldn't get him killed, but was stopped by Len giving him one hell of a scowl as he raised the scope- making his heart hammer in his chest and his blood run cold. No, he wasn't necessarily afraid of a bullet in his brain or gut, but the aftermath of the fact was something he'd rather not linger on. He was no longer just living for himself, had never been. He was living for the ones who couldn't. Lori. Hershel.. Even Shane. And also the ones who still lived. Because there was no such thing as safe anymore, only safer- and he felt they were safer with him. His sudden abject alarm was quelled by this ‘Joe,’ character stepping forward and raising his hands in a peaceful manner, as if he weren't the enemy here as well. This seemed to have a great effect on Len, who not only lowered the gun, but stepped back- head cowed a bit in submission. So this guy was the boss… If he weren't in such dire circumstances, he might have mused to himself that this middle-aged, gray-haired man looked more like a Colonel Sanders spokesperson than a cold blooded murderer, but even such attempt at wry humor failed to wane his worries. He had learned by now that looks could be deceiving, and he didn’t doubt these men had done depraved things, and were no doubt capable of killing a man they'd never met for his stuff. 

“Now, now, there’s no need for any..” he paused , eyes roving over his begrudging surrender before lazily returning to Len. “..unwarranted violence,” he finished, before inclining his head towards the unconscious man still sprawled at the foot of the bed.

“Unless.. That was you,” he added, a strange glint in his eye sending Ricks teeth on edge, gaze immediately pinpointing Len, who seemed to shift under his scrutiny. Joe didn’t seem impressed with his accusatory look, but spared the thin man a look under the guise of equal rights, though Rick wasn't fooled. He knew that there was no honor anymore, no civility.. Especially among thieves and scavengers like these. He also knew that men like these would stop at nothing to bully others into submission, a hypothesis which coincided with Len’s strange reverence for their so-called leader. Unfortunately, he didn't get to further ponder their fucked up group dynamic before he spotted from the corner of his eye, Michonne and Carl, walking on the other side of the street with hands laden with bags. Equal parts relief and terror washed over him, and a quick glance towards Joe and Len at least relieved him of the threat of their detection. Shifting backwards slowly so as to test the waters, he watched as Len seemed to have trouble telling the truth. He’d been looking at Rick as if deliberating, but was surprised to find Joe rounding on him, an eyebrow raised expectantly. He would not tolerate lying in his group it seemed, would not leave room for doubt just who was in charge, though ironically this little power struggle gave Rick a chance to edge towards the window. It was closed, but clean. He trained his eyes hard on Michonne, only occasionally glancing towards the other two. God, he hoped she noticed… He was staring so intently his eyes hurt. She had to know it wasn't safe. That she had to take Carl and go. These men were armed and dangerous, and he did not want a rescue mission to go wrong, or…. No, there were too many possibilities, too many unknowns.. They couldn't be here.

They began to cross the street towards the house, and Len was stumbling over his words. Ricks arm were still raised in surrender, but hopefully Lens blabbering would provide cover. Slowly, he waved his hand, staring below where Michonne and Carl were laughing about something.  
Michonnes head was tilted back in apparent mirth, but was it just him or did she seem a little on edge..? His breath caught in his throat when the room went quiet, and he whirled around to find the pair staring at him.

“Well?” asked Joe, and Rick could feel a nervous sweat bead his brow. This was nerve-wracking, he hadn't heard what had been said before, and now he was left scrambling for context. Had Len lied about what had happened and blamed him? He seemed to take his confused silence as an answer, and stepped closer, making Rick’s hair stand on end. He fought the urge to look at Michonne and Carl now that Joe’s attention was on him, who seemed to enjoy the discomfort his close proximity had. Slinging an arm around Rick’s shoulder (which nearly made him jump), Joe looked back at Len with a conspiritive grin. 

“Don't just stand there, get him out of here,” he said, gesturing towards the unconscious man, “And tell the boys we have a special treat, if they're interested,” he added, further confusing and aggravating Rick. Len turned to do just that, gun dangling from the strap, and Joe must have seen the look on Rick’s face, because he let out a frustrated sigh, signalling for Len to aim it once more at Rick’s chest with a two-fingered point, who glared at the pair in newfound affrontement. He bristled at the appearance of handcuffs, hands forming fists before he showed his open palms to the pair. He would have backed up, but feared that moving from his spot would reveal Michonne and Carl, who he could only hope had sensed something was off and retreated.

“Now, don't make that face… I saw the way you were ogling that MK.. This is just for everyone's safety, including yours,” he said, and Rick raised his brows at the vague threat. 

“Now, please. Turn around. Hands behind your back. Before Len has to put a hole through you.” Now that was more direct. And although he had no intention of being shot, he still paused long enough for Joe to say, “I won’t ask again.” 

Begrudgingly, Rick turned- hands behind his back. Now that he could face forward without scrutiny, he scanned what he could see.. No Michonne, or Carl.. But no dead bodies or gunshots either… A painful twinge of anxiety clawed at his stomach as his blue eyes desperately roved over the abandoned streets, littered with trash. There were more ways than one to silently kill someone, after all, but he had faith in their capability... He just couldn't help but worry. His heart nearly leapt from his chest when he finally spotted them. Michonne, God bless her heart, must have sensed something off, or seen one of these buffoons, for she and Carl were traversing in the shade a ways up the road, her arm outstretched protectively as she ushered him to safety. He let loose a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, though he was far from the danger zone. A great weight was temporarily lifted from his shoulders, returning only when he began thinking of the worst possible scenario. What if there were more of them? What if some were scouting, doing some sort of perimeter check, or... God, he didn't know.

He grit his teeth at the bite of cold metal at his wrists, hands curled into fists at his back as he fought to keep himself from doing something stupid. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was making it hard to think rationally, and as much as he wanted to swing fists, he knew doing that now wouldn't end well for him. Eyes tracking Michonne and Carl’s escape until they disappeared behind the corner of an overgrown suburb, Rick felt his secret little smile break into a disgruntled frown as he was pushed and shoved back towards the bed.  
This definitely didn't have particularly good connotations, but he relished in the small victory he’d witnessed. They were alive. Safe, relatively.. In Michonne’s care… But he’d always been a pessimist when it came to the dredges of humanity.  
Paranoid, busy thinking ‘what if’s’ until his head hurt.. These guys didn’t seem very functional as it was, but he was never one to underestimate humans fickle wrath.

He shrugged off the heavy hand on his shoulder, deciding he could do as simple a task as walk, but he was stopped once again once his knees hit the bed, making his jaw clench. He tried to keep a straight face as he was pressured into bending over, but couldn't help a grimace when his legs were kicked out from under him. Looking about the room, he noted Len finally dragging out his unconscious comrade, signalled by his surrender and consequent cuffing, though he kept sneaking furtive glances towards him and the apparent host of the show. Rick tried to raise his torso off the bed, or at least get his feet under him so he could regain some bearing and think, but his effort was easily thwarted by Joe putting his leg between his in an uncomfortable, bizarre sort of leg-wrestle until his muscles fatigued enough for Joe to successfully move them back in place. He was still barely recovered from their last nightmare-ish antagonist and his subsequent forces, and he really didn't need a new one. 

Sweat was dripping from his soaked dark curls, his old wounds gave a heady throb and his muscles protested this very awkward position as his thoughts raced.  
He was breathing heavily, trying to tamp down the growing dread in his gut, but the longer he was held like this, the longer he grew antsy. What purpose did it serve, other than humiliate him? What had Joe meant when referring to him like a goddamn bowl of candy?  
Despite the obvious, his brain was having a bit of trouble processing things. And when he thought it couldn't possibly get worse, it did. He could feel Joe’s hands start to wander, feel him up. Slowly, as if he were cherishing every goddamn second. Eventually, his rough hands hiked up his simple white shirt, causing him to flare up in indignation. He tried once more to raise himself from the comforter, but without the use of his hands or legs it was pretty much hopeless. In fact, it even seemed to spur Joe on- who pressed himself against Rick and left no room for imagination what was going to go down. He could feel his face grow hot in embarrassment, and he arched away with an indignant huff. Surprisingly, Joe let him try and maneuver up and away, and it wasn't until he felt hands at his waist he found out why. The man imposing himself over the disgruntled Rick decided that what he’d gotten already wasn’t enough, and began tugging at the belt around his waist. Rick didn't have to connect the dots to figure out where this was going, what with a growing bulge pressed against his rear, and he felt a growing familiar rage building in his gut at such depravity. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, bucking his hips vainly in attempt to discourage the hands ripping his leather belt from his belt loops in surprisingly efficient dexterity, further worrying the man pinned beneath him. Before Rick knew it, his zipper was being yanked down, and despite his desperate tugs at the handcuffs pinning his hands behind him (which did nothing but irritate the skin there)- and insistent squirming, Joe was undeterred in coldly shedding him of his denim.

“Oh, c'mon now sugar. You’ll tire yourself out with all that wrigglin’,” Joe said slyly before shucking his boxers in one fluid motion. Rick was finding it increasingly hard to keep a level head, but when some stranger was stripping you while bending you over a bed, it was kind of hard to focus on the priority of careful planning. He tried unconsciously to push his legs together, and to his surprise Joe let him.  
That small gesture was quickly overshadowed by Joe kicking away the clothes that’d pooled at his ankles, which wrenched an angry cry from Rick’s mouth unimpeded. He was panting now, jerking away from Joe’s touch, muscles straining, pulling taut as he tried to gain some sort of leverage.  
Despite his effort, his legs were eventually pried apart by one of Joe’s knees, and Rick grit his teeth so hard he thought he might’ve chipped a tooth. 

“Shh, that’s right.. You’ve been claimed, boy. Gonna have to learn some tough love, now,” Joe continued, and though Rick heard him, he was too busy staring at the doorway to give much of a verbal response, which three men were crowded around, watching with far too much interest. Rick could feel his eye twitch, body pulled taut like a strung bow as he glared vehemently at the ogling buffoons. Joe paused his ministrations, and Rick wasn't sure where this was going but he hoped it was not going in the direction he thought it was.

“...Whaddya lookin at?” Joe snapped, an edge to his voice, and Rick almost felt an inkling of relief at that. 

“W-well, Len said-” one stuttered, but stopped when Joe raised a hand to stop him. 

“Calm down, you’ll get your turn,” Joe said sardonically. “But can’t you see he’s been claimed? Go wait downstairs, give us a little privacy,” he ordered, making Rick’s blood run cold all over again. He arched away angrily, and it took Joe a second till he could wrangle him down again, though he did so with a laugh and demeaning slap to the ass. 

“Whoo! Can’t wait to break that ass-pussy in,” he said with discernable glee, making Rick even more enraged. At seeing the lingering glances from one of the men who was taking his time turning around and walking downstairs, Joe froze the shameless groping of his ass to give him a look. The man quickly caught himself at Joe’s pointed glare, though as he went to turn around, Joe called for him to stop. 

“Hey, close the door, will ya?” Joe asked under the thin guise of good nature, though when the man stepped forward, Joe halted him again.

“Hey- While you’re at it, get Len for me, will ya?” he asked, as if it was even a question. The man nodded before sparing another glance at the pair and hurriedly closing the door.

“Oh, he did catch a good piece of ass,” Joe whistled to himself, spiking Rick’s chagrin and making him squirm again. Pressing his hand down on the small of his back, Joe easily forced him back down, chuckling darkly. Rick licked his chapped lips nervously, trying to find the right words to say, but finding it kind of hard when he was buck naked from the waist down and stripped of more things than his dignity.

“Look,” Rick said, and despite his best efforts to keep his voice steady, he could hear the slightest of wavers in it. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried again. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice still strained. At least Joe wasn’t touching him anymore though, which was a larger relief than he thought it would be. 

“No,” conceded Joe, confusing Rick. “No, I don’t have to. I want to. And what I want, I get,” he snapped, hiking up his white shirt again to expose his chest and nipples, pert from the cold. Rick’s breath caught in his throat, but before Joe could harass him anymore, the door opened, revealing the lean, lanky man who’d caught him in the first place. He opened and closed the door casually, trying to hide the look of greed and avarice in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. 

“Yeah, boss?” he asked, efficiently filling in the role of mindless lackey. At least Joe had stopped touching him though. 

“Since you’ve done good and found this fresh piece of meat, I think you should take his mouth,” Joe said conversationally, making that glint in Len’s eyes spark up and making Rick buck up and struggle anew. 

“You’re not takin’ anything,” Rick hissed, endeavoring desperately to dislodge the hands on his hips. In spite of his strenuous exertion, Len didn’t seem fazed, as he slung the long-muzzled gun from his shoulder and leaned it against the wall before nearing the bed. 

He couldn't believe this was happening. Couldn't believe he'd let this happen. 

He had to get out, had to keep living. For their sake. Carl, Michonne... He felt that ridiculously strong urge to protect them even now, when it wasn't necessarily them who needed protecting. He was going to get out of this alive. He just had to. It wasn't a matter of faith or skill or desire. It was a matter of necessity. He wasn't dying here. Wasn't giving up.

**Author's Note:**

> Wooh! What a rush! Next Chapter should be up soon, lovelies ;) 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments below! Comments and Suggestions are my figurative Writing Fuel, and I always enjoy reading them!


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